


Burn

by Sky_kiss



Series: The Bear and the Phoenix [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Badass, Because Ursa is beautiful, Courtship, F/M, Firebending & Firebenders, Ozai is still a douchebag, Power Play, Pre-Series, and Lady Macbeth, but like the clever kind not the psycho kind, ignores the comics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14205771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: The prince tasted of ash and flame and wildfire. Ozai was all those things. He was dangerous and volatile and one day, sooner than later, he might destroy her. Ursa knows she should run. But she stays, and the Phoenix does not burn her.





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> My hand slipped. Apparently I'm just in a..."write about the hot parents of the show's actual protagonists" mood. I do not regret this. Also. I hate what the comics do to Ursa. So I've ignored them.

The Fire Lord had summoned each of his magistrates to the Capital.

Her family was not special, just one of many. They were neither greatly wealthy nor particularly notable. Old blood had its power, of course, but Avatar Roku’s was more hindrance than help. Ursa had learned long ago that it was better not to mention such things.

Especially here. The young woman stared up at a statue of Fire Lord Sozin and swallowed. She refused to feel small in front of it, did not duck her head as her parents had instructed her. She had no say in her heritage. Nor in the squabbles of men long since dead. She would not feel shame for the simple act of being born.

Her father had chuckled. Her mother had been less indulgent, lips pursed to a thin line.

None of this mattered. In a few days, they would return home. Life would go on.

The crowds chatter grew to a fever pitch before suddenly dropping off, eerily silent. A moment later, she understood why. Their hosts had finally arrived.

Nearly a decade and a half separated the two princes. It was a whispered joke between the Fire Nation’s nobility. Time had not dulled Azulon’s appetites for carnal pleasures. They were lucky, if nothing else, that his second son had been born within the confines of wedlock.

Looking at them now, it was difficult to note any resemblance at all. The coloring, maybe. Their skin was the same color, pale with a hint of bronze, rich in the way only true nobles managed. The eyes too; only the royal family could claim the clear, golden hue. Beyond that, Ursa would have thought them strangers.

Iroh had started graying not long into his thirties. He was a stout man, shorter than most of the Fire Nation, broadly built. He had never been handsome, though his face was not unpleasant. Iroh’s strength was in his charm, a silvery tongue and a natural friendliness that seemed both contagious and suffocating. Few disliked the crown prince. His smiles were affable, open. And he was powerful. More powerful than most would presume, given his…eccentricities. The Dragon of the West.

The title suited him.

In contrast, Ozai was tall. His shoulders were broad but there was a leanness to him absent from his brother’s form, a sharpness to his features that most considered classically attractive. Coal dark hair fell past his shoulders, ending somewhere near the center of his back. He carried himself with a natural grace, lazy, charismatic, if not strictly friendly. The second prince was cunning, yes, but not…trustworthy. The other nobles regarded him with a more marked caution, whispering among themselves. If Ozai heard, he did not pay them mind.

They were beneath him, and a Phoenix did not concern itself with the squabbles of the crow.

The second son caught her staring. She refused to look away.

A bear was not so easily brought to heel.  
___

He summoned her the next day, to tea of all things.

She arrived, smiling softly, playing the role of the innocent maid. The other guests laughed, gushing over her. Such excellent breeding, such a graceful bearing. Not something one would expect from a country girl, born well outside the Capital City. Ozai said nothing. The prince’s lips were pursed to a hard line.

He caught her arm before she could leave. Ozai angled them off the path, pulling her after him. Ursa bit down on the inside of her cheek. His grip was hard enough to bruise; there was a hint of pain. She would not reflect upon that later, when she was safely at home, tucked away in her chambers and staring in outrage at the blossoming purples marks dotted across her bicep. No, it was the heat of him she noticed. Ozai’s touch burned.

“You are an excellent actress, ladyship.”

Ozai’s voice was deeper than his brothers. It had a liquid quality to it, shifting between purring and hissing at any given point in time. He was glaring at her, all that pride nakedly on display. It called to something ugly within her, something buried deep, rankling at the challenge. For the second time, she forced herself to hold his attention, painting on a smile, “Is my behavior displeasing, Prince Ozai?”

“I suppose not. You’ve been perfectly tedious all evening.” He stared down at her, his nose perfect, face regal. A stray gust of wind tugged at his hair. He was a beautiful man. In a strange way, it made it easier to dislike him. He squeezed her arm and a hint of pain did register then. He spoke more quietly, a whisper only she could catch, “You were different last night.”

“We did not speak last night, my prince.”

Ozai watched her more careful. She did not shift under the weight of his inspection. Eventually, he smiled, the full lips turning up, pleased. The prince nodded to himself, pleased, releasing his grip. He offered his arm instead, “You are correct. How boorish of me.”

“You will have try harder to offend me, my prince. Your other guests may be less forgiving. You did abandon them, after all.”

To drag a young woman into the depths of the royal gardens. His grin spread wider. She would have sworn there was something wolfish hidden beneath the surface, an unkind pleasure derived from her subtle jibe. Ozai chuckled, “Their approval does not concern me.”

“And this peasant girl’s does?”

“Iroh is always prattling on about being more attentive to the servants.”

She rounded on him. For the first time he looked unequivocally pleased.  
____

Ozai invited her to stay in the Capital. It was just this side of scandalous, of course; she had no retinue of her own to protect her. Her father was a magistrate, yes, but…they could claim no great riches. Her mother had eyed her carefully, nodding once before taking her leave.

And then Ursa was alone. The suite provided for her was cavernous, undeniably grand. Golds filigree adorned most surfaces; each of the fabrics was a rich silk, beautifully dyed in shades of red and amber. It was beyond what she should have ever expected.

A cage, but a pretty one. She paced the length of it irritably, her hands balled in the heavy fabric of her robes.

“Does it displease you, lady?”

She jumped despite herself, rounding on the intruder. Ozai was seated on the balcony railing, lounging as if he belonged there. His head was cocked to the side, watching her with a more restrained interest than usual. The young woman pursed her lips, “Is this the sort of treatment I should expect? Where I am from, a gentleman would have…” she motioned at the door, losing track of her thoughts, “What are you doing?”

“There are a hundred tired nobles lined up outside your door,” she could feel the distaste radiating off of him, the hint of a sneer. “I didn’t feel like waiting.”

“And what of how I feel?”

Ozai seemed to uncurl when he moved, slipping off the railing in one smooth motion. It was easy to forget his height, removed as he so often was from precedings. Here, alone in her chambers, it struck her as suffocating. The prince had come from training more likely than not. His arms were bare, a light sheen of sweat still kissing at his skin. She found herself tracing the line of his figure as he came closer, stepping out of the summer sun. He reached out, pausing before he touched her hair, “Tell me.”

“Pardon?”

“Tell me how you feel, little dove,” his eyes were unnatural in the low light of her chambers, glittering like two small suns. “These are your dwellings. Don’t let decorum shackle you.” He called to something inside of her, ancient. She could feel the heat of him licking across the sparse distance. She was freezing in comparison. Ursa squared her jaw. She would not break. “Would you prefer I make it an order?”

His attention kept flicking to her lips. Ursa scowled at him, setting one hand against his chest, shoving. He barely shifted, “Leave the way you came.” After a moment's consideration, she added a quiet, “Please.”

She suffered a flash of him parading through the front door, shaming her in front of all those assembled. The Prince stared at her for a moment, as if she were something strange, unknowable, before nodding.

He took her hand in his own, bending to press a kiss to her knuckles, “Your wish, little dove.”

Her skin continued to burn long after he’d disappeared over the railing.  
____

He did not return to her chambers after that.

Ozai did not come to see her at all.

The second son, one of the servants explained one day, their voice nothing more than a whisper, could be a petulant creature. The one word was spoken as a breathy exhale, the girl’s hand shaking badly as she went about her work. It was not something she would have come forward with on her own. Ursa had pressed her until she finally confessed. If she had offended the young man, he would take his leave of her, stewing until his temper got the better of him.

She was unsure it would come to that.

Ursa frowned, standing out on the balcony. The Capital was warmer than her home province by several degrees. Even in the evening sun, she felt superheated. She’d traded her formal robes for gauzy silks. They helped, if only somewhat.

Below, in the pavilion, the Fire Lord’s chosen were training. She understood it was most difficult for them, here at sunset, their governing force at its weakest point, the temperature plummeting. Too few firebenders recognized that handicap; Azulon, at the Crown Prince’s instruction, had instituted the training in the hopes of overcoming this setback.

She did not have to search to find Ozai among their number. The prince towered above them, his dark hair hanging about his shoulders, loose. It was a vanity for which his elder brother had teased him many times and one he had never bothered to address. He was sure of his skills. It showed as he stalked about the arena.

Fire bending was different from the other elements, or so she had heard. It was less martial than Earth, less fluid than water, its rhythms difficult to master. But it was beautiful in the hands of a master, not unlike an elaborate dance. Ursa closed her eyes, letting the scent of smoke drift towards her. Fire licked along the cobblestones as the combatants moved through their katas.

The Prince could have battled all those assembled without so much as a break in his step. She knew this as fact, felt her pulse quicken as she traced his movements. Lean muscle was corded along the length of his arms, his chest. He was beautiful. Powerful. His flame would consume the others, unfettered, raw. The blood of Sozin, the strongest among them, was strong in his veins.

Ursa could not control the flames but she felt their pull all the same. She was a descendant of the Avatar Roku (the traitor; her mind whispered) and she would never be far removed from the fire’s warmth.

She did not realize she had been staring until she finally caught sight of the Prince’s face. He nodded to her, smirking.  
____

She’d started attending his practices. Sometimes Ozai hid his preening better than others. Today, he seemed particularly satisfied with his display. The young man lingered in the center of the arena, his skin glistening with sweat, breathing heavily. The others dispersed. Soon, only the pair of them remained.

Ozai stretched out his hand, flexing the fingers. The wrappings tied across his palm were singed black in places. She was surprised they hadn’t been consumed altogether. The young woman crossed to stand in front of him, her expression pinched. For once, he said nothing. He was always the most companionable after sparring.

“Something troubles you,” his voice was liquid, the gold of his eyes was liquid; the way he moved was liquid. She found her tongue smoothing along the seam of her lips, wetting them. Her gaze swept over his bare chest. His skin was unblemished, no burns, no markings. A testament to his skill. “I told you before. Speak your mind.”

“You are the prince. It isn’t so simple as that.”

Ozai shrugged, his expression hardening, “A second born prince. My brother will take the throne and his son after that.” He bent until they were at eye level, “I am ‘prince’ of nothing. Speak.”

Ursa pursed her lips. Against her better judgment, she spoke, “What does it feel like?” He arched a brow, eyeing her more carefully. She corrected herself, “When you channel the fire? What’s it like?”

He was rarely beautiful, terrible, when he smiled, his lips curling back over too white teeth. His canines seemed exaggerated by the high line of his cheekbones. But he answered her, and there was nothing but honesty in his words, the two syllables drunk and heady, “Power.”

She mouthed the word, unable to look away from him. Ozai held out his hand.

“Shall I show you, little dove?”  
____

There was something tawdry in this, their play acting. They meet under cover of darkness. At Ursa’s insistence. Ozai could care precious little for the servants gossip. When she’d pointed out the nobles were just as likely to talk, he’d shrugged, a lazy challenge in his posture.

What could they do?

“And what of my reputation?”

The prince eyed her, the nearest she’d seen to genuine surprise flashing across his features, “Would you be here if that truly concerned you?”

She didn’t have an answer. But the weeks wore on and no one so much as whispered about their arrangement. Someone must have caught her slipping out of her chambers in the dead of night. Perhaps fear of the prince kept them silent. The poor, the servants, he could execute. The nobles would face an Agni Kai.

No one was stupid enough to willingly shoulder that burden.

Ozai was already waiting for her, his skin paler in the moonlight. If the full moon caused him any discomfort (and he had confessed to her once, after too many cups of sake, that it did), he did not show it. Her prince wore a contented smirk, self satisfied, holding one arm out to her, “Little dove.”

“My prince.”

“Let me take your cloak.”

It was the opening step to their dance, his touch lingering as he unfastened the clasp, sweeping along her clavicle, out towards her shoulder. The heat of his skin replaced that of the heavy fabric and, bereft of both, she shivered in the night air.

“I’ve been practicing,” she forced her voice to remain even, keeping her attention fixed firmly ahead of her. Looking back at him would be dangerous. Ozai removed his touch, stepping back. She could still feel him, the brief contact branded intro her skin.

“Show me.”

Ursa nodded, squaring her jaw. She had no fire of her own but there was still a strange peace that accompanied their most ancient tradition. Ursa closed her eyes, running the katas through her mind before allowing her body to follow suit.

“Stop.” His voice shocked her out of motion. She stumbled once before catching herself, leaning the majority of her weight on her right foot. Ozai was staring at her, not angry like she might have anticipated, only curious. His voice was soft, “You’re getting worse.”

She stiffened, jerking back as if he’d struck her, “Pardon?”

“The more you memorize the dance, the less you feel it,” he demonstrated the last of her movements. The same general theory but fluid, natural. She crossed her arms over her chest, “Fire is passion, little dove.”

“You’ve had years to hone your craft.”

“A wise woman would use that to her advantage,” he tipped his head to the side, strange gold eyes fixated on her face. Ozai could be a cad when the mood took him but he never let his attention drift lower when they were here, practicing. This was a sacred art, even to the frequently sacrilegious prince. “You are nothing if not clever, Ursa.”

It was a strange thing. The sound of her own name had never elicited such a thrill in the past. She felt it chase down the length of her spine, a nearly physical caress. The young woman nodded, turning away from him. She took a steadying breath.

“Calm,” she ignored the heat of him at her back. The prince took her hands in his own, her palms turned up and away from him. He pressed her right hand flat against her belly, pushing her back against his chest. Ozai did not speak, inhaling deeply, inflating against her back, before releasing his breath. He repeated the motion once, then again.

She found herself breathing with him, her eyes lulling shut.

Cicadas chirped somewhere out in the underbrush and she was painfully away of how humid it was, how warm. The air in her lungs felt thick. Ozai tweaked his nose against the shell of her ear, the two words a request and a promise all at once, “Trust me.”

The prince moved through the katas again, this time leading her body along with his own. She felt stiff at first. His proximity was stifling and she was unaccustomed to having a man pressed so tightly against her. Ozai would mumble against her hair, a wordless correction, and she would go slack again. She was fluid by the end of it.

She wondered, with a dark, almost poisonous fascination, how they must look to an outside eye. His loose trousers were thin; her own were little better, and the breast bindings, while practical, were not modest. The moonlight would catch on their skin, his darker than hers, the gentle sheen of sweat. They would be beautiful, moving like this.

“I have a gift for you, Ursa,” Ozai’s voice was always honey, always liquid, always smooth, but it rasped against the crown of her skull, lost in her hair. “Will you stay with me here?” her breath caught in her throat, a dull ache pooling deep in her belly. “Not much longer.”

She couldn’t find her voice. A nod was enough.

Ozai folded his hand over hers, his arms stretching to cover her own. She was enfolded, his body hunched over her more diminutive form, leading her through the familiar dance once more. This time, when they punched out, there was a wild jet of flame.

Ursa jerked, staring up at him in wonderment.

“A gift,” he repeated, and for the first time, she saw hunger in those strange eyes. She could not say if it was his or just her own, reflected back at her. The young woman bit her lower lip hard enough to hurt, relaxing back into his hold. They kicked, a wide, sweeping maneuver, and flame followed suit. She felt its heat but not the burn.

Ozai would never permit it.

She was young enough, foolish enough, to believe that.  
___

“What do you do all day?”

Ozai was in a foul mood tonight. He’d been silent throughout their earlier shared meal, stalked through the halls for the better part of the evening. More than one servant had come to her chambers seeking shelter from his temper. Ursa arched a brow.

“I don’t understand the question.”

He huffed, tossing his head. She was reminded, in equal parts, of some great cat, its fur damp and pride wounded, and a large child. His dark hair whipped about him, exaggerating each of his movements. Ozai had a flair, and a taste, for the dramatic. “You hide yourself away in your chambers day in, day out. How do you occupy your time?”

“I do not hide, my prince.”

“Ozai,” he snapped, “Don’t remind me of the palace.”

She bit her tongue, eyeing him with more caution, “Ozai. If you must know. I read. I practice my instruments, sewing…”

“Riveting.”

“My mother,” she continued, biting back on her initial retort, “Was a herbalist. I practice, now and again.”

His brow furrowed, “You brew poisons?”

“I could.”

The response seemed to please him. Ozai nodded, staring up at the sky. The stars were hidden beneath a thick blanket of clouds. While it made navigating the darkness difficult, it also meant the moon's effect was less…pressing. “A useful skill, I imagine. Is it interesting?”

She smirked, “You’d make a terrible herbalist.”

He didn’t smile, “I find I’m considered inferior in most respects these days.”

That was the crux of it then. Crown Prince Iroh had returned earlier that morning. The Fire Lord would have been singing his eldest son’s praise ever since. Frowning, Ursa crossed to his side, seating herself beside him in the dirt. Her mother’s voice echoed through her skull. It was wrong for a lady to behave in such a matter, wrong to dirty herself.

Being here was wrong. She could handle much worse. Ursa took Ozai’s hand, squeezing once, forcing him to hold her gaze, “You’re wrong, Ozai.”  
____

His mood did not improve even after Iroh departed.

She watched, puzzled, as he continued his training, his movements less controlled. His fires burned hotter, the jets threatening to singe those gathered on the sidelines. He’d burned his partner more than once over the course of the afternoon. When they’d finished, he’d stalked off without so much as a glance her direction.

She wanted to follow him. One of the serving girls caught her hand before she could indulge such a stupid fancy. “Best not to be bothering him, ladyship. The Prince will burn himself out.” She did not sound entirely convinced. Ursa nodded.

He was late to their training but he showed, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense.

She raised a brow, “Are you going to lash out at me, Ozai?”

"Perhaps. You’d at least have the decency to fight back.”

His hands kept curling at his waist, fingers extending and then clenching back into a fist. He seemed unaware of the twitch. Ursa kept her voice even, calm, as if addressing a particularly wild animal, “Tell me what’s wrong.” He didn’t respond. Ozai was most dangerous when he was silent. At least when he raged, when he lashed out, he was easy to read. She sometimes forgot just how mercurial he could be, how…conniving. Ursa took a step forward, pressing one hand flat over his heart. “We can fix it, whatever it is.”

He cocked his head to the side, repeating the word, tasting it, “We?”

His heart beat a steady rhythm beneath her hand, thrumming against his rib cage. Pumping blood, Sozin’s blood, pumping fire…she curled her fingers, the tips of her nails digging into his skin, “Yes.”

Ozai stared down at her, softly puzzled. It was the second time he’d regarded her with such naked confusion: as if she were ephemeral and fundamentally strange. He curled one finger beneath her jaw, tipping her head up to look at him.

He kissed her and she tasted fire.  
____

Their betrothal was announced in the morning.

That night, he stole in her chambers, climbing over the balcony a second time. She waited for him now, desire hanging off her, thick. Ursa tangled her hands in his hair, drawing him to her, kissing him, hungry. When he was near, she felt warm. His lips burned as they passed across her throat; his fingers burned as they dipped inside her robes. Blunt nails scrapped across her belly and she gasped.

“My Ursa,” he breathed her name against her throat, scraping his teeth over her pulse. The note of ownership should have frightened her. She felt a sick thrill instead.

She fisted her hand in the dark mass of his hair, drawing him back up to her for a kiss. It was hunger, frenzied, teeth and tongue as they fumbled at the ornate, ceremonial, robes, “My Ozai.” Her prince groaned, shuddering and clutching her to his chest.

He would own her, yes. But she owned him just the same.  
___

The next morning, Ozai left her chambers through the front door. She had insisted on as much, escorting him to the threshold. Every movement ached pleasantly. Ozai lingered in the hall before wrapping an arm around her, leaning in to brush his teeth over her cheek.

“Brazen woman.”

He sounded proud. Ozai’s neck was a mottled patchwork of purple, love bites. He’d refused to do up his collar or allow her to cover them. They marked him, he muttered, smoothing his thumb a particularly vivid mark on her own throat. He’d sucked at her pulse hard enough to hurt, her nails biting into his shoulder as he thrust into her. She’d been too far gone in the moment to protest. Ursa found, much like her betrothed, she liked the mark. She turned her face just enough to kiss him, the contact chaste in comparison. He chuckled against her lips.

“If you could be dragged from your books for one afternoon,” she huffed, the arm around her waist keeping her from pulling away. Ozai nipped at her, “I would enjoy your company. Tea in the garden, perhaps.”

“The last time we took tea you were insufferable.”

“Yes, but, this time, should I drag you off. I guarantee you’ll find the results more pleasurable.”

The young woman huffed out a laugh, pushing at his chest, “How will I resist such honeyed words, my phoenix?”

A shiver chased down his spine, the game lost, drowned beneath another wave of desire. He kissed her, hungry, as if he might devour her altogether. His fingers dug into her hips, hard enough to bruise.

Ursa would give back every bit as good as she got. Bears did not cower. She cupped his face in her hands, stroking his tongue with her own. She tasted ash and flame and wildfire. Ozai was all those things. He was dangerous and volatile, electricity crackling from the tips of his fingers. She felt heat on her skin, licking along her nerve endings.

Ozai could destroy her (and maybe one day he would). Maybe one day things would change between them. For now, he softened when she groaned, the heat banking to something more manageable. She would never burn.

Her Phoenix wouldn’t allow it.


End file.
